


Yours

by Lecavayay



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Misunderstandings, Tampa Bay Lightning, breakup and makeup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-05-28 07:25:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19389313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lecavayay/pseuds/Lecavayay
Summary: He takes Slater’s wrist, holds it to his lips like the name there is his and not some other Braydon waiting for the man in his bed to find him.





	Yours

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to a very anonymous anon on tumblr for sparking this whole fic!

They’re barely through the door before Slater’s got him shoved up against the wall, giggling into a kiss. Braydon’s head just nearly misses the coat hooks and he’s off-balance with his hands already tucked under Slater’s shirt, feeling him up.

“Take it off, c’mon,” Slater eggs on. He lifts his arms so Braydon can do just that, tossing the shirt to the side.

Braydon gets his mouth on Slater’s neck and draws him in as close as he can. “Bed?”

Slater nods, shoving Braydon’s jacket over his shoulders and down onto the floor. He wraps his arms around Braydon’s neck. “Carry me?” he asks, breathlessly.

“Spoiled.” He did that _one time_ and now Slater can’t move around the house without being hefted into Braydon’s arms. He squats down to get his hands behind Slater’s knees and hoists him up.

They’re barely down the hall before Braydon shoves Slater against the wall and kisses him. There are _some_ advantages to this position.

Slater gets his hands up in Braydon’s hair, stretching out the curls. “You’re so hot, so _strong_.”

“I think you’re getting heavier,” he says.

“Rude!”

Braydon gets them to the bedroom and does _not_ throw Slater on the bed. He lowers him gently, caging him in with his body, knees snug around his hips.

“Hi,” Slater says, a little smirk settling on his lips.

Braydon sits back to strip his shirt off, undo his belt buckle. Slater’s hands are right there, sliding up the muscle of his stomach and over his ribs. Braydon catches his wrists before he gets to where he’s ticklish.

He pins them to the bed, palm spanning the entire strip of skin where Slater’s soulmark is. Where Braydon’s name sits, dark and permanent, on the inside of his left wrist.

Slater turns his head and presses a kiss to the blank skin above where Braydon wears a stretchy cotton band. It’s better for both of them if they can’t see the name there. “C’mon.”

The lube is in the nightstand where it always is and the condom box is almost empty – they went through those fast. Naked, it’s easy to find the way they fit together like this, Braydon’s fingers stretching Slater wide as he throws his head back against the pillow, mouth open in want.

“Brayd--.” Slater’s begging gets cut off with one practiced flick of Braydon’s fingers.

“You were saying?” He arches an eyebrow, watching Slater pull himself back from the pleasure.

“Fuck me.”

Braydon takes Slater’s lips in a kiss as he fumbles with the condom, situates right where Slater wants him. They both groan at the slick press of him inside.

Slater clings, blunt fingertips on Braydon’s shoulders as he builds a rhythm. The sound of them like this in the quiet room makes Braydon’s cheeks heat, knowing how much Slater loves it.

His wrist, the one with Braydon’s name on it, slips around to the back of his neck, holding on. Braydon can feel the warmth of it against his skin, imagines there’s a true connection there. He wishes so desperately he could give that same illusion to Slater.

“Touch me, please, Braydon, touch me.”

He does, grinding in deep as he gets Slater off. The sweet hot clench of him nearly tips Braydon over, but it’s not enough. “Can I?”

Slater’s useless, eyes half-lidded and lazy. He nods though, encouraging Braydon with the leg still wrapped around his waist.

He builds it up slowly, nearly overwhelmed by each aftershock that rocks Slater’s body when he hits him just right.

Slater, for his part, drags a finger through the mess he made of himself and offers it to Braydon. It’s his left hand, the one with his mark, and, ten seconds from orgasm, Braydon lets himself have this.

He takes Slater’s wrist, holds it to his lips like the name there is his and not some other Braydon waiting for the man in his bed to find him. He comes wishing like hell that he could have this for the rest of his life.

//

Braydon’s sitting on the end of the bed shirtless, when Slater comes out of the bathroom, steam following behind.

“You’re leaving?” he asks, indicating the jeans Braydon put back on. He’s drying his hair with a towel, jacking up the curls without a care. It’ll be frizzy tomorrow.

Braydon hates that he knows that. He should have just disappeared while he was in the shower. “We should stop doing this.”

Slater drops the towel. “No we fucking should not.”

“Slater…”

“No!”

“You know I’m right.”

“No! You don’t get to decide for the both of us. If you don’t want to be with me, just say it. Don’t make it sound mutual.”

“ _Of course_ I want to be with you!” he shouts, throwing his hands. “But we both know your name isn’t on my wrist and my name isn’t on yours.”

Slater shakes his head. “That’s bullshit.”

“No it’s not! It’s _logical_. Your Braydon is out there looking for you! He’s wondering if the next person he meets is going to be you.”

“Soulmates are bullshit.”

Braydon scoffs. “No they’re not.” He stands, pulls his henley over his head.

“Then I’ll change my name.”

“Don’t do this.”

“It wouldn’t be hard,” he says, voice cracking. “A little bit of paperwork one afternoon and I’ll be Eric. Maybe the Powers that Be knew that I would change my name to whatever they put on your wrist. Maybe they knew that I would do anything to be yours.”

“The Powers that Be don’t play games, Slater.” It breaks his heart to say it.

Slater sets his jaw. “Why can’t you just let us be happy.”

He steps into Slater’s space and allows himself to brush a thumb over his jaw. “Because I don’t want to be the reason for your inevitable regret.”

He doesn’t look back as he flees the apartment, not even when Slater yells his name. Not even when he hears the thud of something heavy hitting the door.

He takes the stairs quickly and bursts out into the night. Blinking, he lets the tears he’d been holding back wet his cheeks.

//

Braydon wakes up the next morning exhausted, eyes puffy and a little red. He drags his fingers through his hair and sees the stark black letters on his wrist. _Eric_.

“Fuck.”

He left his band at Slater’s. The long sleeves of his shirt adequate enough to block out the name in the heat of heartbreak. He can picture clearly where he left it: hanging off the edge of the sink as Slater showered, steam fogging up the mirror.

He has a whole drawer full of others, all skin colored and the same stretchy sport material, but it’s the principle of the matter. The _implication_ of it, right there in Slater’s face.

God, he’s such an accidental dick.

//

He stays in his car much longer than he should. He waits for the song to end and then tells himself he’ll get out after the next. There’s a Dierks Bentley song on another station that he listens to just because it reminds him of Slater.

Yeah, that just makes him real sad.

Killer’s the one who finally taps on his window. “You coming or going?”

Braydon sighs, cuts the engine. “I’m coming.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

Braydon shrugs his bag onto his shoulder. “It’s just been a tough couple of days. I’m okay.”

“Nothing a little workout can’t fix, eh?” Killer slaps him on the back and heads for the arena.

Braydon appreciates the sentiment but he’s not sure anything can fix the mess he’s made.

It’s not a gut punch to see Slater already sitting in his stall. Braydon knew he’d be there, practice isn’t optional. What is unexpected is the skin-colored band covering his soulmark.

Braydon’s band.

Slater doesn’t look at him when he sits and starts to settle in. He accidentally elbows him in the knee when he’s tying his laces and feels Slater shift away.

Braydon’s heart sinks.

Slater tugs his elbow pads into place and for a moment, the band it pulled up. Braydon catches a fleeting glance of the very tops of the letters before Slater rights the fabric. He gets his chest pad and his jersey on in record time, stomping out toward the ice without a word.

Killer tosses a ball of tape at him.

“What?” He clips his socks up.

“Lover’s quarrel? Rough.”

Braydon huffs. “Something like that.”

//

They go on the road for a short trip, up to Detroit and then Columbus. Braydon’s old enough to have his own room but he hasn’t been alone in it for a while. The double bed feels too big. He has no idea what to watch and feels nowhere close to sleep.

He flips his phone over and over in his hand. No notifications. It hasn’t buzzed with anything other than his parents and the team group chat in days.

He’s bored.

And fucking lonely.

He slips his band off, tosses it on the nightstand. He brushes his thumb over the letters there, traces the _E._ He wonders where his Eric is, if he’s sleeping or just starting his day.

His phone vibrates and his whole body tenses when he sees the name.

_We should talk when we get back to Tampa._

//

They get home in the middle of the afternoon and Braydon doesn’t have to wait long for the knock on his door.

“Okay, I’ve been thinking a lot and this is stupid,” Slater says, bursting into Braydon’s house. “You’re old.”

Braydon frowns even as his heart does a backflip with Slater so close. “I suppose.”

“No, I mean, like, you were born way before me. Got your name and your mark and all that before my parents even thought about me.”

“This isn’t making me feel better.”

Slater sits on the couch, takes Braydon’s hands. “My mom named me after a sign she saw when she was pregnant. It was random and out of the blue, plucked off a highway sign. So how would the Powers that Be even know what my name was going to be?”

“Slater…”

“So they put a random name on you or your second-best option or something because I didn’t _have a name yet._ Tell me I’m wrong.”

Braydon pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. He wants to shoot down Slater’s wild theory and tell him to leave. He wants to believe him, to just make up their own rules and ride off into the sunset. He squeezes Slater’s hands. “I want to believe you.”

“Then just do it. Believe that fate can make mistakes, that the names on our wrists are just suggestions instead of done deals.” Slater pulls up his sleeve, shows off his name. “I’ve met Braydons before you but none of them have ever made me feel the way you do. So I don’t care that you have _Eric_ on your wrist, you’re mine.”

Braydon softens.

“And I’m yours,” Slater finishes.

“Slater.”

“I’m _yours_.”

His conviction warms something in Braydon, makes him want to gather Slater into his arms and never let go. “What if you find him.”

“Who?”

“Your Braydon.”

Slater scoffs.

“I’m serious! What if we do this and then ten years from now, when I’m _actually_ old and retired, you find him? What if we do this and you run into him tomorrow? I can’t…Slater, I can--.”

“I’m not going to be looking for anyone if I’m with you.” Slater scoots closer, his forehead all bunched up in seriousness. “I need you to understand that if you’ll have me, you’ll have me forever. The name on your wrist does not get to dictate my love for you, Braydon.”

“For better or worse?”

“I do,” Slater says, holding Braydon’s jaw in his hands.

Braydon smiles into the kiss, feeling lighter than he ever has.

//

They’re all bundled up to their eyes in Winnipeg, thick scarves wrapped around their faces and hats pulled down over their ears, when Slater asks, “Are you still going to Cabo?”

After their talk, and with the off-week approaching, Braydon had honestly made entirely different plans. “I mean, when Shu asked for our deposits we weren’t…I thought we weren’t going. I made other plans.”

Slater sulks the whole way back to the hotel.

“I’m sorry,” he says as they shuck all of their layers in the heat of the room. “You should still go.”

“It’s a _couples trip_. I’ll just eat the deposit and stay home with you. It’s fine.”

Braydon frowns. “I…actually won’t be home.”

“ _Why_ …” Slater whines, drawing out the y.

“It’s a secret.” It sounds stupid the moment Braydon says it.

“That sounds shady as fuck, Coburn.”

“It’s not _shady_ , it’s just a surprise. For you.” He steps between Slater’s spread legs where he’s sitting on the bed. “So, go to Cabo. I’ll pick you up from the airport when you get back.”

Slater gently headbutts him in the stomach.

//

Slater flies out Sunday morning and Braydon hits the road right after he’s dropped him off. It’s six and a half hours to Atlanta.

He should make it before they close.

The Department of Virtue and Soulmates is in the heart of downtown where Braydon and everyone else in the city is trying to navigate at the moment.

It’s a close call, but he pulls into the parking lot with ten minutes to spare. The website said everyone who arrived before closing would be seen, so he’s feeling confident.

The building’s entry has high ceilings with tall windows that let the sun in. Everything is clean and white and quiet. A woman with a kind smile is sitting at the front desk.

“Hi,” Braydon says. “I’d like to make an appointment.”

“Of course,” she says, voice so gentle and sweet. “Fill this out for me and we’ll get you a number.”

He runs through the form: _name, address, phone number, email, reason for visit…_

He’d worn his band out of habit, blocking out the name on his wrist like he always does. _Name change,_ he writes.

“You are number 290,” the woman says after he hands back the clipboard. “If you just go through those doors to the waiting room, we’ll call you as soon as possible.”

Braydon does as he’s told and is entirely unprepared for what he finds behind the double doors.

The room has to be larger than a football field and completely filled with chairs. Chairs that are mostly taken by people glowing in the overhead fluorescent lights. There’re a couple of televisions on mute and a row of vending machines along one wall.

He picks a seat next to an elderly woman who has fallen asleep and can’t help but wonder how long she’s been here.

A buzzer sounds and everyone in the room looks toward the red numbers flashing over the doors Braydon had come through.

_867_

“Excuse me,” he says, leaning over to ask the young guy sitting two seats down. “Are the numbers called at random?”

“Nah, bro. They just start over when it hits 999.”

Braydon does the mental math. There’s 422 people between him and the Powers that Be. “Fuck.”

“Yeah, I’ve been chillin’ in this seat for two days now.”

“What number are you?”

“93. They get through about a-hundred people a day, I think.”

That’s…that’s four days. “Can’t you leave and come back?”

“Sure. But if you miss your number, you gotta start all over again and I’m not about that shit.”

Brayden didn’t think anything could be worse than the DMV and yet, here he sits.

But it’s fine.

He can do this for Slater.

//

It takes four and a half days.

Four and a half days of snacks get stuck in the vending machine. Of poor cell service. Of daytime TV. Of a slow rotation of humans who settle into a seat and never move. Four nights spent on the floor or draped over a few chairs, quick naps sitting upright. Once he nearly fell asleep in a bathroom stall.

But on Thursday at 1:55pm, Braydon’s number is finally called. 

His joints are stiff and his back hurts as he stands. He’s grown more of a beard than he ever has outside of a playoff run. His stomach is growling for a vegetable. Anything other than bags of chips and Snickers bars. His cell phone has long since lost power.

He feels weak as he walks down a very long hallway to the room where the Powers that Be reside.

“Please have a seat,” the very small man standing at the very tall podium says.

Braydon sits, his ass immediately protesting.

“You are here for a name change?” the man asks, scanning Braydon’s paperwork.

“Yes.”

“And are you certain?”

“Very.”

“Alright then, just sign this waiver and we’ll get you sorted.”

Braydon finds a second wind when he takes the paper from The Power. He scans it, noting all his information is correct. “Wait,” he says, his heart stopping at the line with his current soulmate’s name. “This isn’t the name on my wrist.”

“What do you mean?” the man asks, pushing his large glasses up his nose.

“This name here, it’s different from what I have. It’s…it’s actually the name I had planned to have it changed to.”

“Show me your wrist.”

Braydon does, lifting it up well above his head to rest on the very tall podium.

He tuts. “Dear me. There seems to have been an error. We’ll get this sorted, not to worry.”

Braydon is dizzy, his mind racing to turn over everything that’s just happened. Slater’s name was in his paperwork. Slater’s name was right there on the line given to his soulmate. There was no Eric on the page. Nothing about him at all. “So,” he starts. “Just to be clear, Slater has been my soulmate this whole time?”

The very small man smiles down at him. “Yes, of course. From the very beginning.”

Yes, of course.

The change burns ever so slightly, Braydon’s skin pulling taut like he forgot to wear sunscreen. When it’s finished, there’s no trace of Eric left.

 _Slater_ , it reads. Dark and clear and _real_ on his left wrist.

//

Slater gets home from Cabo late Saturday night. He’s easy to fold into the car, all soft around the edges, frizzy hair. He’s picked up a tan, the bridge of his nose pink from the sun. He pulls Braydon’s hand into his lap as they drive.

“How was it?”

Slater hums. “Nice.”

Braydon knows there’s more.

“Would’ve been nicer if you were there. Kind of felt like the sad fifth wheel. Jake and Yanni were so gross.”

He laughs quietly, squeezing Slater’s hand.

“You would’ve looked good on the beach.”

“Next time,” Braydon says, confident there will be many more off-weeks to end up on the beach together.

Slater raises his eyebrows at him. “There’s going to be a next time? You’re not going to try and act like we’re not good enough to be together again?”

Braydon knows he deserves that. “No,” he says. “I, uh, I was stupid to think we weren’t made for each other. And I’m sorry for that.”

“Oh?”

He catches Slater looking at his wrist, covered in his usual band. “Just wait until we get home.”

Slater changes the radio station and they listen to country the rest of the way home.

“Quit puttering around,” Slater says after slithering under the covers of Braydon’s bed.

“I’m just brushing my teeth.”

“No,” he whines. “I want my surprise.”

Braydon smiles around a mouthful of toothpaste. “Okay,” he says, spits. “So while you were in Cabo, drinking margaritas, I went to Atlanta.”

“You feeling nostalgic for the Thrashers?”

“No,” he scoffs, climbing into bed. “I went to the DVS.”

Slater perks up. “You what?”

“I spent four days in a football field-sized room to see the Powers that Be.”

“W-why would you do that?”

“To fix this.” He slips his band off and shows Slater his left wrist.

Slater gapes at his name inked permanently on Braydon’s skin. He reaches out, tentative, to trace the smooth curves of the S.

“You were right, though,” he continues. “About you being my soulmate.”

“I mean, duh.” Slater smiles brightly.

“No, really. There was a paperwork error. Your name was already in my file. You’re my soulmate. Always have been”

“Oh my god.”

“Thank you for knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I was your Braydon.”

Slater throws his leg over Braydon’s hips, pins him to the bed. “Soulmates are still bullshit,” he says, hands tilting Braydon’s face up. “But I’m so fucking glad you’re mine.”


End file.
